


Heart Essence

by verywhale



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Antiquarian is Ancestor incarnate, Backstory Expansion, Canon-Typical Violence, Dialogue Heavy, Final boss spoilers, Flagellant cannot shut up about the Light, Gen, Lore Speculations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 07:35:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20560601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verywhale/pseuds/verywhale
Summary: Antiquarian is still looking for the third soul for her ritual, and it seems that it has always been closer than she thought. Meanwhile, the Flagellant has something curious to say about the Light.





	Heart Essence

Sunsets in the Weald were always quite peculiar. Vile corruption, coming from its poisoned soil, tinted the horizon with a sick shade of green. The red disk of the falling sun looked especially threatening, like an eye of a sleepless demon observing these forsaken lands. Nights weren’t much better either. The color of the sky was close to the one of the rotten earth, and dead trees were drawing their twisted hands to the wicked crimson stars.

But tonight, the play of color above the Old Road was unseen before even by its oldest denizens. A pillar of a fantastic and terrible light was descending from the skies and sinking deep in the stained woods, spreading its gleam miles further. Echoing roars, coming from this site, were also none of the infected walking corpses, or mindless beasts lurking there casually. However, it was no longer unfamiliar to some citizens of the Hamlet. They would say that they had witnessed a similar view in the forgotten Ruins or in the caves of the Cove just a couple of weeks ago.

It would be a lie to say that nobody had expected this creature from the distant universe to land on the Old Road that day. Many doubts and wild guesses were expressed about its endless comebacks before. But the third expedition to the shattered mill and the miraculous return of fallen adventurers – who outright refused to speak of what had happened – forced the simple folk to keep their curiosity to themselves. Heroes of the Hamlet merely had to accept that the dreadful Thing continued to spawn at the new place all over and over. And the motley crew who happened to encounter it that day in the Weald was no exception.

Josephine had to admit that their group had quite overestimated their chances to stand against the Thing. A gigantic amalgamation of earthly and otherworldly beings was hollowly staring through her, while she was looking over her teammates. Willam tried to shield Margaret from harm, but one of the shards emitted by this abomination had pierced her fragile mind. She was no longer herself, and kept shouting something incoherent at anyone who approached her.

“No-no, I forgot to pay club dues!” she yelled, pointing her musket at the nearest tombstone along the road. “My dearest father will kick me out if I go with you!”

Willam sighed, and Josephine glanced back at the Thing. Its crystalline constituent had taken over the organic one, but it was already crumbling, too. But it was not the right time to become overconfident again – not after Damian had exhausted the remains of his strength to drain its eldritch blood. She couldn’t hide behind his back anymore, either. She knew that the next strike reflected on him would send him into frenzy. Most of the mapped road wasn’t explored and plundered yet, and Josephine couldn’t afford to retreat or to fall victim to Damian and Margaret’s combined madness.

“What are you going to do?” Willam asked reluctantly. “Is there still something up to your mind?”

Of course there was, she thought to herself. She looked at the censer in her hand. Intuition told her that Damian’s efforts were still not enough to down their adversary, and Josephine would have to step forward to lead them to victory. She stared into the Thing’s empty eyes again. She had witnessed such senseless hate before, at the comet crash site in the heart of the old mill. But whatever their cosmic will was, it was no hindrance for her own.

She swung the censer at her colossal foe, and fumes of the festering essence eroded its shimmering eye-sockets. The Thing let out a nightmarish growl as it still had might to make its last move. An ethereal shard swept over Josephine’s head, and freezing shock ran through her body. Such was this pain that she screamed out, spreading more horror over the team. She reached to grab her head, but she was left paralyzed by this unfathomable force, and could barely move an inch further.

“Bah! You think you are special, don’t you?” Margaret sneered, her musket now directed at the rock under her feet. Josephine couldn’t even frown in response. Damian’s grunts even more resembled a towering laughter – so close was he to the breakdown.

And a moment later, the color died out like an extinguished candle. The Weald retained its dull shades once more, and familiar animalistic howling resounded again. Bled out and eaten away, the terrible Thing faded and returned to the stars – only to be expected to spawn here next week. That was not a concern for Josephine however, already recovered from the paralysis.

“Help me gather the shards,” she said, “and let us march on. The map says that the meadow afore must be empty.”

“Are we going to the dance floor?” Margaret licked her dry lips. “Just watch me and envy my brilliant skills! Even that tramp in yellow rags cannot compete with me!”

Josephine ignored her gibberish and continued delving in the crater left by the Thing. There were a plentiful lot of wet iridescent crystals, which seemed to take as much space in one of her pouches as a single key or a bandage. She didn’t blink an eye at the sight of an obsidian statuette around. It was another cause of unexplainable things happening to them day by day. She offered the last piece of bread to Willam – or rather to his loyal friend Fergus – in order to shove the statuette in her bag.

“What wonderful secrets the Light leaves for us,” a husky voice spoke above Josephine. “But you do not even muse about these jewels you seem to find in every corpse we pillage. I have my doubts about their common appearance being a sheer coincidence. Have you any guess?”

Josephine lifted her puzzled eyes at Damian who was throwing a vast shadow at her. He had never seemed to care about treasure before, even for the holy relics scattered in the Ruins, which he considered to be worthless frauds. Furthermore, he couldn’t even _see_ what had dropped from their enemy, as he had washed his eyes with blood and sacrificed his everyman vision for something of a greater significance. She never expected Damian to take thought about this mystery.

She took out the statuette again. She had lost count of how many of these she collected from all known lands, but she remembered that they all seemed to be perfect copies of one another. The width of the material, the shallow gloss, the length of each tentacle and the subtle anguish on the victim’s carved face – all was passing through dozens of these antiques. This frightening replication had concerned her long deceased master even more than it affected Josephine herself. And as his successor, she voluntary took the mission of uncovering this secret, along with many others which had ever visited his wicked mind. She had her own guess of their origin, and to confirm it was the matter of completing the very sublime goal of hers.

“There is a theory I have,” Josephine said, glancing back and forth at Damian and the relic in her hands. “I am not sure that I should speak it out loud though…”

“Hey, hey, I also want to hear about the court intrigues!” Margaret cried out, her eyes ablaze. “Why do you always leave me out of the most curious details?”

Josephine groaned quietly and looked behind her back. Margaret was bouncing on her toes as Willam rushed to stop her from falling right into the mud. Josephine suddenly caught his glance, and it was indeed something she was ready to meet.

Attentive and experienced, Willam didn’t miss out her unmindful remark. He quickly averted his face, but still left out an uneasy sigh, which was definitely not directed at Margaret. Speaking of Margaret, if she weren’t out of her mind, she wouldn’t only notice it, but also leave a bitter comment about Josephine’s usual furtiveness.

Josephine turned away from the rest again, clenching the antique in her clammy hands. She knew it perfectly how untrustworthy she looked in the eyes of all her allies, including those now residing in the Hamlet. She didn’t know however, why Willam’s cynical reaction drove her to such an odd sense of discomfort. Hadn’t she been already supposed to get used to it?

Why would all local heroes treat a confirmed criminal, a desperate crypt robber, a murderous jester or a demon-possessed individual with bigger respect than one foreign archeologist? Would it be an evening in the tavern, a gathering around the campfire, a mass in the abbey or just an occasional talk, each of these outcasts would reveal their story, their sufferings and misdoings. Tardif would casually drop the number of bounties claimed by his deadly axe. Boudica would cry out the names of her fallen tribesmen. Paracelsus would curse each professor and classmate who had condemned her and led to her proscription. No shameful secret would stay behind the gates of each broken mind.

No secret, except one of Josephine’s.

“…If you do not want to tell, I will not insist. The Light already knows the answer, as it is all-seeing and all-knowing.”

Josephine tilted her head as Damian’s tired voice brought her back from her anxious thoughts. She was still keeping the group at the empty crater where they’d fought the Thing from the Stars, instead of heading towards the meadow! She could’ve always indulged in her concerns around the campfire, she thought to herself. Damian must’ve asked her so many questions while she was deeply listening to her inner voices.

“Forgive me,” she said, hastily stuffing the statuette and the map back in her pouch. “Let us no longer stand there, asking for a bigger trouble to come… We need some rest.”

“No-o-o-o-o,” Margaret moaned, shaking Fergus who had started growling. “Who needs sleep when there are so many pigeons to shoot?”

***

As the last log of the bundle had fed the fire, and a large lot of provisions had been devoured, everyone turned to their own pastime. Willam took his moment to nuzzle with Fergus before putting her on watch. Unfortunately, his pursuits to ease Margaret’s burdened mind didn’t take effect. Damian took his place the farthest from the fire, alone with his flail as usual. Although the sounds of relentless swings and exalted breathing were still reaching the rest of the group.

“All shall find redemption in blood and pain,” he said, and Josephine let out a relieved sigh. No matter how ruthless his methods were, she felt a brief pleasure from knowing that they wouldn’t let him fall to rampage any time soon.

She crossed her ankles and put her censer between herself and the campfire. The perspective of her vision allowed her to observe the flames as if they were coming directly from the censer. She put her hands in the air and started citing old scriptures, still staring at the dance of fire. Crackle of the fire was blending with the restless rattle inside the censer, which was now exhaling vile smoke, visible to Josephine alone. She closed her eyes, but the picture remained imprinted in her concentrated mind. This smoke was the grimace of her mentor, and the fire was his blood, and the censer was the cage for his trapped soul. His burning essence was still carrying his rage, his ambitions, his illicit knowledge, now belonging to Josephine.

Eyes still shut, she drew a triangle on the ground around the censer. Two ends of the figure were nearly touching the fire, while the third wasn’t even finished – just like the ritual during that fateful day. Hands up, breath in, throat slit, heart stopped. Josephine looked at the fire again. Its flames were hectic, constantly reaching for unknown heights – and so was the will shared between Josephine and the soul of her master. All he had failed to collect would be hers. All he had failed to learn would be revealed by her. The third soul which he had failed to find would be claimed by her, Josephine, and no cost would stop her from it.

She breathed out and put the censer away as its rattling receded. Judging by serene sleeping faces of her mates by her right hand, her mantra hadn’t bothered anyone – and so still hadn’t been unraveled. Such was her deplorable secret, which she couldn’t afford being exposed to any poor soul possibly fitting for the last ritual. Fortunately, Josephine was quite patient, and took her time observing people accompanying her during their expeditions. Many attempts had been failed before, but it didn’t stop her perpetual search. Her hunger for knowledge and possession was greater than any regrets and dubieties. She was drawn to that forsaken Hamlet partially because of its history and personality of its eccentric landlord. She knew what costs this man had paid for his ambitions to come true, and she wouldn’t hesitate either.

Heavy breathing by her left hand didn’t become easier through time – Damian still didn’t sleep, but neither did he pay attention to Josephine. She noticed that his flail was already lying by his side, but he kept groping fresh wounds on his back eagerly. She raised her brow, but decided not to intervene.

Her previous expedition came back to Josephine’s mind: a short campaign into the pelagic caverns, led by Reynauld, with Audrey and Alhazred following them. Reynauld might’ve loved shouting hymns dedicated to his god just as Damian, but it was the only thing shared between two zealots. Devotion aside, Reynauld was as much of a common man as anyone else in the Hamlet. Deep regrets over his abandoned family and flashbacks of the abuse by the church authorities were still corroding his mind. During lighter moments, he would share a mug of beer with Dismas in the tavern, or reluctantly join a game of dice with Tardif and Sarmenti – only to lose later and heatedly ask for a rematch. And let’s not forget the endless jokes about his stealing tendencies, which had reached even all segments of the Hamlet population!

Junia wasn’t much different either. How much was she obsessed with her purity and sacred duty at the St. Martha’s, she still could never forgive their hateful attitude or drop her indecent thoughts. Audrey had once snatched Junia’s diary. Josephine hadn’t been present at the time she’d been reading it to bystanders, but she was told that the first page alone would be enough to excommunicate Junia. She would be the first to condemn her fellows’ careless drinking, but then quickly join their fun and repent in the abbey for several weeks later. She also tended to avoid the penance hall – she would assure everyone that she’s either afraid of such pain or wasn’t into such an extreme demonstration of her faith... Although Audrey and Boudica again would easily take note of Junia’s lavish sweating and blushing of a possibly different origin. As for Baldwin, little could be said about his devotion to the Light, other than his duty as the ‘vicar of god’ during his reign.

However, Damian was always cast aside even from his fellow adherents. Merciless to himself as much as to his enemies, he didn’t cite the verses, bear the symbols of the church, or follow the daily rituals imposed by the abbey. Instead, he drew strength from letting his blood and carving his flesh, endlessly praising the Light for the burden it has granted to him. And not only his undue practices seemed to alienate him from people, but so did his utmost piety, bordering on delusion. Josephine was yet to find any aspect of Damian’s personality that couldn’t be linked to his passion – furthermore, she was surprisingly interested in finding one. Such single-mindnessness of his fascinated and terrified her. But something led her to believe that he might have something hidden from the outside world.

“Josephine, you cannot sleep, can you?” Damian asked as the usual grin appeared on his half-hidden face. “What is bothering you?”

Head tilted in curiosity, Josephine moved closer to him. “I was so captured by my own incantation as I forgot about sleep. But at least, I feel steady and prepared for all future hardships.”

“All? Are you sure about that?” A flash of arrogant sneer slipped in Damian’s voice. “You seem to be the one running from your burden instead of embracing it.”

She pressed her lips and rolled her eyes. Once again, he was talking about the burden. Had this man ever had anything different to discuss?

“But I can shoulder your burden if you wish so,” he continued, softly talking to the depths of the black woods. “Do not hesitate, I shrink not from more weight to carry.”

“Isn’t it what you’ve been doing since the start of this expedition?” Josephine chuckled. “The first thing I do is to fall behind your back. At some point I start thinking that you might get sick of this practice.”

Damian left a quiet but prolonged laugh, and finally turned to her. His limbs were still crossed, but he leaned closer towards her. “Worry not, this is my duty for the Light, to carry as much weight as it is necessary to reach the final absolution.”

She shrugged. “Something is not like the other: on one hand, a benevolent duty, and on the other, an aim for personal absolution.”

A sudden charge of wind drove the flames dangerously close to her as she uttered it. An uneasy smile was still playing on Josephine’s lips. She wished she would’ve bitten her tongue off instead of fueling the fire of Damian’s anger – at least what she expected her indiscreet remark to do. She stared at him, waiting for his grin to twist into a wrathful grimace, or his voice to flare up with rampant spirits.

The pause wasn’t long, but the outcome was none of what Josephine had presumed. “I know it makes little sense to you,” Damian said with the same carefree tone of his, as his expression didn’t change by a bit, “but as long as my suffering is filled with sincere and selfless devotion, I shall release the burden of ones around me and reunite with the Light when my time comes in.”

“Your duty is to help even untrustworthy people like me? And receive not even a single word of gratefulness in return?”

“What is the burden to bear if all people are free of sin? You must have worked for too long with earthly riches to think that all duty deserves payment. More pain and weight on my shoulders is the biggest gratitude I could ask for in this mortal world, as it proves my worth to the Light.”

Josephine straightened her back. The last words left her agitated, and she asked carefully:

“Forgive me for asking, but what do you refer to as ‘the final absolution’ and ‘reunite with the Light?’ I have read many sacred books, but I barely recall anything like that.”

This time, she honestly expected to fuel his anger with this question. He knew it well that her interest in religious testaments was purely academic. She was also aware that he didn’t – _couldn’t_ – read them whatsoever. Yet she had no idea where he took his knowledge of sacraments, especially in such extreme forms.

But Damian didn’t look bothered by her innocent ignorance, as the same grin still didn’t leave his face. “No one would find anything of the final absolution in man-made manuscripts, pretending to be a word of the Light,” he said, as the excitation in his voice kept rising. “One must face the Light in its entirety to have their fragile mind open to its revelations.”

A small smile appeared on Josephine’s face, but a drop of sweat still ran down her forehead. Nothing he’d said came as a big surprise to her, but hearing it from Damian himself let the freezing grasp of anxiety capture her.

“We all were released into this world by the Light,” he said, “and we will return to it in time. Unity with the Light – that is the absolution I seek. Once my burden will reach such great amounts, so this mortal shell will rupture and I shall live forever.”

Nothing of that had she ever heard in Junia or Reynauld’s prayers. So little sense did his words make to her, yet such a terror they imbued into her, that she held her breath and didn’t move an inch. Only her fingertips trembled slightly as he spoke. But the more she waited, the more unnerving the anticipation was to her, and her straight, frozen face fell apart soon.

“I will not hasten you to reply, as my message must be a sudden realization for you,” Damian said calmly. “I would rather return to the question which you left unanswered.”

Josephine shook her head and touched one of her bags by pure instinct. She guessed quickly what he meant to ask.

“Ah, the relics… Have I told you of the frightening resemblance among them all? No living man could possibly replicate an antique so flawlessly, don’t you agree?”

“Could it be because they were never created by a living man? So, we have the same guess, don’t we? They are nothing but messages from the Light.”

What a typical response of a fanatic like him, Josephine thought. Didn’t even try to hide that arrogant sneer in his voice. She had a different opinion on this matter, which she didn’t intend to hold back.

“I would agree, but there’s still a thing which leaves me puzzled,” she said, her shoulders straightened, chin up, hands laid on the knees. “Why would a god send its sign with an abomination from outer spheres, some place beyond our realm? It must be against the nature, against the laws of a god we know.”

“There’s nothing going against the laws of the Light!” Damian shouted so brashly, that Josephine leaned away from him. For the third time her intuition failed her this night! Their mates had to be deeply plunged in the dreamworld, if such a yawp hadn’t disturbed their sleep.

“It has created this world and all outer worlds, and all creatures inhabiting them!” he yelled again, before bending towards Josephine. One inch further, and she would step into the fire. Sweat and blood and something pestilent struck her nostrils even through her shawl. But turning away forced Damian also to move his body to block Josephine’s direction.

She would have to lift her head to see his face, otherwise she could only stare at that massive curved scar on his chest. This sign was barely recognizable from this angle, but still as heinous, and it had always infused her with strange awe. But did she really want to raise her eyes?

She grabbed her censer and quickly recalled a defensive incantation. But when she looked up, there was no flush in his face, or clenched jaw, or bare teeth. He was still slanted above her, his grin slowly reappearing. As if he was waiting until she let the censer back off her hands, or at least loosened her grip – how would he know that, though? Still, Josephine just had to lay it back on the grass; and soon Damian pushed himself even further, lips to her ear, just to let out a whisper which left her limbs shivering and her heart pumping. She had to secure herself on both of her arms, so she wouldn’t fall into the campfire.

“And it also has the might to destroy them. Such is its sacred will.”

The howling of winds had diminished. Then he could hear a nervous chuckle, a swallowing sound, and an uneasy rustling. There was a loud but choked hum as well: that kind you hear when your companion stops themselves from talking. Josephine’s skin was stinging with tremors, especially around the waist and the shoulder, where their bodies touched. The possibility of falling and burning was the only thing which stopped her from pushing – or stabbing him. She glanced at the moonless sky above them, at the tops of dead trees, but couldn’t dare to turn her head – not because she feared to face Damian, but rather to have the spike on his collar slice her cheek. Right now, it was the only cold object pressed to her flaming body.

She had so many questions, so many yearnings popping in her head – and disappearing before she could form them into words. More sighs slipped, more heartbeats passed, and Damian was waiting. The weight and heat of his body was suffocating her. Her nostrils were burning, and so was her ear, pierced by the heady breathing besides it. He was still waiting. She closed her eyes, but only for these tense sensations to enhance. A tortured groan forced itself out of her throat.

“If you wish to harm me,” she uttered, “go ahead and push me, watch me burn alive! Is it the punishment the Light assigned to me?”

“No, no, the punishment is over! What patience, what a strong will! I am bursting with envy!”

Josephine gasped and nearly lost her balance, while Damian dashed away from her, cackling and clapping his hands over the legs. Her face froze in the same expression: eyes wide-open, teeth clenched, eyebrows sitting in the middle of her forehead. She sat and moved further from the fire. Her hand almost involuntary reached for the dagger on her belt, as Damian couldn’t stop laughing on the edge of losing his voice. She breathed deeply for fresh air she’d craved, and flattened the folds on her sweat-drenched dress.

“What do you want from me?” she moaned. “You become too frantic when people disagree with your views on your religion. No wonder that others avoid your company.”

Damian’s laughter faded into soft giggling, and he clasped his hands behind his head. “You haven’t yet learned the lesson of the lash, but already say that I become too frantic? Does your fear have any bounds?”

Josephine stared at the flail still lying next to him, but didn’t make any movements. If he touched that, a handle of her dagger would be sticking out of his chest. But instead, he bent his body to the opposite side, as if he was melting from his own heat. A second later the mocking grin disappeared from his face.

“You are curious about the greater truth, aren’t you?” he asked. “You seek the ultimate knowledge. I hear it in your every word, in every breath you hold so timidly.”

Josephine narrowed her eyes, but averted them soon. She wanted to assure herself that he’s being delusional as always, that a man like him would never read her mind that easily – but that would be an obvious lie. What was he going to say now? Did he still have something to say? Was he waiting for her answers? Did he need them from her? No, the silence itself had answered his question. And so Josephine let him talk once more, and resumed her observation, which had now taken a truly curious form.

“But do not fret; I’m not the one to judge you, if not the opposite!”

A foul smoke and frantic rattling rose from the censer, but there was no wind. Damian, however, didn’t seem to notice this noise. Josephine drew herself closer to him and moved her eye from his lips to the chest, now fully exposed with his arms still raised.

“I merely want to point out a fatal flaw in your methods.”

She’d seen the halo of the Light before: on the cover of Junia’s versebook, on the spire of the abbey, on the ancient tombstones under its stairs. Whatever was engraved deeply on Damian’s chest – it was not the one.

“You are misguided. You keep studying profane texts and runes instead of following the true Light.”

She recalled one of the origin stories about the past ancestor, about that hive queen of the sealed courtyard she had witnessed recently. The truth found in a drop of blood, the knowledge colored in crimson.

“It even throws its unique signs at you, inaccessible by any other person alive…”

Willam and Reynauld and many others had returned from the dig behind the abandoned manor. They’d told of maniacal cultists, biting their flesh off for blasted rejuvenation, or mutated brawlers, revealing the vision of a gestating entity from the depths. But not to those hidden after the bogus relics of the church.

“But you choose to disapprove them as ‘strange antiques!’”

They’d told of iron crowns, which spawned above the cursed altars, guarded by those mammoth adherents. Same as on the masks of acolytes, or fossil coins scattered along the road, or…

“If you wish to continue your path, I shall lead you back to it.”

And he was sitting in front of her. The vassal of the church who denied its holy creeds, the messenger of the Light who drained his profane blood for divine power. The bearer of the accursed crown, which gave no rest to those who witnessed its ascent.

Damian stretched his skinless hand towards Josephine. The smile he had – patient, no teeth exposed – didn’t belong to someone who’d just offered her to meet the eternity, the divinity, the Light – _whatever the name had been fabricated for it._

She laid her palm on the censer. It was nearly set on blazing fire by that moment – yet no one except her still paid attention to it. The same fire had escalated inside her devious mind – she wanted to dance, to scream, to laugh, to let the blood flow, so the entire world would learn of her exultation. Was it the same feeling Damian himself knew, that one which nearly taken him over during the fight with the Thing?

Josephine lifted her other hand above Damian’s, but didn’t shake it yet. She wasn’t going to agree mindlessly on that deal, no matter how marvelous it seemed to be. She still hadn’t known his price.

“What will you do to me?” she asked. “Will you flay me and spill my blood? So I would witness the same revelations as you once had?”

Damian sensed a slight flutter in her voice. The threat of the lesson of the lash was still fresh in her memory.

“I sense your fear, but luckily for you, there is a much shorter path open for us.”

Josephine tilted her head. She was about to ask more, but Damian himself continued:

“Once we return, the Heiress plans to send the final expedition to the depths of the beyond. I’ve begged her to send me in. I’m absolutely positive that this is the end of my journey on the earth, and the way towards the true Light.”

Their palms were about to meet each other, but Josephine kept the pause. The tales about the hideous cultists, insides of the great beast, and iron crowns reappeared in her memory. She remembered the fate of the Ancestor as well – terrible fate notwithstanding, still carried by the poor Heiress. If Josephine spoke, her voice would be full of shameful trembling, which had no place at this time. No way she’d preferred pain to the direct meeting, but what did stop her? She glanced at the carved crown again. How could it still cause her confidence to abate, when she was ready to strike that pact?

She’s still ready, she thought to herself. She just had to know more details, to be sure that this madman wasn’t going to wrap her around his finger. What if he was only pretending to be insane? As for the Ancestor and that bullet found inside his head – it wasn’t of her concern, not at all. At the end of the day, she knew the mistakes she could learn from.

“I shall ask the Heiress about this,” Josephine said as quietly as she could to conceal her distress. “We must return home by tomorrow, you don’t mind waiting?”

Damian threw his head back, tapping the fingers on his other hand. “Yes, yes, ask her, assure her that you must go with me. And so you will join me on the path towards the final absolution, or the greatest knowledge you look for!”

“What about other two people the Heiress wants to send? Will they also meet the true Light?” She tried to remember who hadn’t visited the dig yet. Was it Tardif, Sarmenti, Margaret?

He clanked his tongue. “These two are faithless, indulged into mundane woes which will end as their heartbeats recede. I care not for what they will see.” He left out an exasperated sigh, before turning back to Josephine; and a wide smile was back on his face. “But you’re the dedicated one, as you proved before. And you will have the honor of meeting our creator – and joining eternity!”

Josephine sneered at the passion which overtook him – but there was no mockery in it. Even in the moment of doubt, soft tingling didn’t leave her stomach. There was a small room for disappointment, since so much time had been spent on looking for something that’d been so close. Sweat was dripping from her fingers, and her heart was fluttering, but she was sitting still and holding a straight face. Such a strict posture would help her calm her breath, stop any slightest tremors – or, hide her plotting from Damian before they shook their hands.

But suddenly Damian’s skinless palm was no longer open for a handshake. Josephine just blinked, and now he was holding two of his fingers next to her lips. This time, she could lean and move away as much as she wanted, but she stayed patient. Repeating that intimate torture from before wasn’t included in her plans for the rest of the night. Neither was letting him think that she’s still afraid.

“But I have one more thing to pledge from you,” he said, teeth bared even during the pauses. “Once I am to make the last step towards my ascension, _do not get in my way._ I will have what I’ve striven for, and you will not take it from me.”

A single heartbeat thumped especially hard, that Josephine couldn’t hold her startled visage any longer. Instead, a defiant grimace distorted it, and she pushed Damian’s hand aside. It’s as wet and gross as she thought. Just like Damian himself.

His mouth, now drooped, spoke of genuine confusion. She had enough fears just through one night, all induced by maddening ramble of someone that lousy, deranged, uncivilized. Even the cracking of lash wouldn’t scare her now. No need to fear someone who had unknowingly offered his life to _her_. What torment would it be, if she struck her blade into his back right in front of the entity he worshipped?

“Even if I promise it to you, can you really trust me?”

It was her turn to give him her hand. Her turn to wait, her turn to watch him find anything to say.

He was faster than she expected. “Waste not your words; I am not the one to accept your promise,” he said with familiar vanity, which only made Josephine chuckle. “It’s all at the mercy of the Light. Make your vow in its name.”

Any name you like, as long as you belong to me, she thought to herself, as she finally shook the same clammy, grisly hand.


End file.
